


Ashes, Rubble, and the Debris You Left Behind

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the pool incident, Sherlock is dead and John starts a diary, recording all the things he wanted to tell Sherlock. But it evolves into something much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes, Rubble, and the Debris You Left Behind

* * *

_Tuesday, 27 April 2010  
14.52_

Erm, well… My name is John Watson and this… this is ridiculous.

 _End of Recording_

* * *

 _Thursday 29 April 2010  
05.32_

The psychologist says that I have to do this, or she'll … I don't know what she thinks she can do.

My name is John Watson, and this is a video diary. I hope to God nobody sees this because…

Well, it doesn't matter, does it? The one person who _would_ say anything…

Christ. This is stupid.

So, I'm doing this because I have to record the daily events of my life. Or weekly, or something. Regularly, she said.

And I can't type. Not anymore. It's hard to type when your hands have been crushed by tons of falling concrete, isn't it?

Yeah, so…

Woke up early this morning. Third morning back at the flat.

Managed the stairs all right. Leg's still playing up, though. Sleeping in your bed. Carefully.

Anyway, I didn't want to wake up to Mrs Hudson leaving tea out by the bed again. Nearly killed her yesterday. Not good to kill your landlady.

She's being too nice... too nice to me, now that you're gone.

Christ. I'm talking like you can see this.

This _is_ stupid.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 3 May 2010  
18.22_

So, Sarah came over today to help me clear out some of your things.

Mycroft said he didn't think anything of yours could possibly be of interest to him. He did take your violin, though. What a bastard.

And then he left me a cheque for more money than I've ever seen in my life.

Jesus. Like a fucking insurance policy payout or something.

He's looking _old_. So's Lestrade, too.

I suppose I am, too. Sarah said she didn't think I should be here all by myself.

But where am I supposed to go?

Who'd want me for a flatmate?

Only you'd be mad enough to share with me.

We've binned the pigs' feet in the freezer, and sent the head back to St Bart's. What the hell possessed you, anyway?

Sometimes I really hate you, you know that?

Sarah won't sleep with me, in case you were wondering. Not that I think she really was going to, anyway.

I don't think it's because of the… what happened either.

I think it's because she sees how much I …

Oh, I'm… this is ridiculous. You can't hear me. You're _dead_!

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Sunday 20 June 2010  
03.14_

I fucking found it. Finally. Did you think I wasn't going to?

Did you really think you could hide it from me?

God, you're an idiot.

I found your cocaine. Really, Sherlock? In the _eyeballs_?

And I'd managed to clear out all the rest of your things, and I left the eyeballs where we'd put them after Sergeant Donovan found them, because it was a huge fucking joke. Right?

But they were starting to smell – whatever you'd treated them with began to go off. So I picked them up and looked at them and they weren't real, were they? Just a fucking prop.

Fucking filled with cocaine.

Jesus. What were you…

Fuck, but I hate you right now.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Sunday 20 June, 2010  
15.03_

So, I'm sitting here with tea, and the flat's too quiet without you.

God, the pounding in my head.

Yeah, I may have been a bit drunk last night.

But it doesn't change a word I said. It also doesn't change that you _didn't_ actually lie to me that night, did you?

Mycroft would call it "plausible deniability," wouldn't he?

Your brother's a prick.

Tomorrow, they're going to see if I'm eligible for surgery. The left hand's healing all right, but the right… well, they think they can reattach the … ligament, at least. So I'll regain my mobility. Sort of.

Yeah, well, I couldn't perform surgery before this. Not since Afghanistan, right?

Mike cornered me on Friday when I was at St Bart's to drop off the last of the intestines in the freezer – said I could teach with him.

Mrs Hudson says I should get out more.

She keeps making me casseroles. I think she doesn't know what else to do.

Fucking eyeballs. Really, Sherlock?

 _End Recording_

* * *

16 July 2010

This is the first time I've tried typing since the pool.

I suppose I should be happy I have two fingers to type with.

You bastard. You knew you were going to die that night, didn’t you?

And I let you go. You were plotting something. And I fucking let you go.

I still hate you, for the record.

And your brother's still a prick.

* * *

 _Monday 23 August 2010  
21.11_

It's hot in here. The flat has no circulation, apparently.

I'm probably a little drunk. My hands hurt too much to type.

God, I miss you so fucking much. Should've told you that sooner, eh?

Still hate you though.

It's too hot. Too quiet without you.

Your brother keeps coming by. Mycroft. Mycroft, Mycroft.

What kind of fucking stupid name is that, anyway?

I can hear Mrs Turner's married ones' television.

They're called Derek and Peter, by the way. I'm not sure which one is which, though.

Did you know, they thought we were a couple, too?

I wonder sometimes what that would have been like.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 11 September 2010  
02.30_

So, I can't sleep again.

My hands hurt too much to type, too.

So I'm here. Talking at you again. As if you can hear me.

Because, well, I'm teaching with Mike. Thought I'd tell you that.

And there's a student. Mary. Mary Morstan.

And I think she…

Oh, what does it matter…I'm going to bed. Your bed. Finally found what was smelling in your room. Should I even ask why you put a hamster in the box spring?

Had to throw that out. Mrs Hudson wasn't very happy. Made your brother buy me a new mattress set.

Right plush, too.

He's still a creepy prick, though.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Thursday 25 November 2010  
23.48_

Mary's asleep. She's…

And I'm here in the sitting room talking to you. Again. Probably because I'd expected you to come barging in halfway through, with a text from Greg.

Yeah, he's Greg now. And he's doing fine without you, thank you very much.

But anyway, the date with Mary went well. Obviously. You weren't there to crash it.

She's nice enough. She's not Sarah, though.

But maybe that's a good thing, you know?

No, you wouldn't know. Because you judge people on…

What were your criteria, anyway?

Why did you choose me, Sherlock?

Yeah… that's rich. Here I am – in your dressing gown, by the way – while my girlfriend's in your room. Sleeping.

Girlfriend. Yeah. I guess… Well, what was I supposed to do?

Not make the joke?

Throw myself at you and pull you down to the floor of that stall and shag the life out of you?

Christ. I'm arguing with a dead man. And I've just shagged my girlfriend for the first time, and I'm here trying to justify it to you.

Fuck you. I don't need to justify it to you.

I really hate you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _25 December 2010_

I'm writing this. With a pen. It seems right. It hurts like hell, too.

I'm leaving this where Mycroft can see it. He said he'd drop by on Boxing Day.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock.

I miss you.

* * *

 _Monday 3 January 2011  
04.45_

Happy New Year, you great berk.

Another year eh?

If anyone had told me last year at this time I'd be…

Oh well. Easy come, easy go?

Couldn't sleep again for the nightmares.

Did you know about them? Didn't have a one while you were... while we were...

And of course they're back now.

Shall I tell you about them, Sherlock? Did you ever study psychology? Must have done – diagnosed my psychosomatic limp, right?

They start in the pool. Always in the pool.

And I'm naked. Didn't used to be – not in … not in the others.

With a fucking bomb strapped to me. Naked and hard, and I see you, and you have the gun, and I say…

God, what a waste of time.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 29 January 2011  
15.15_

Well, with no cocaine in the flat, no hamsters, no scary things in the fridge, I can actually have Mary over for dinner now. She's coming tonight.

Did you know we've only slept here once?

I have to hide the skull, though. I've named him Trevor, by the way, and I can't get rid of him. She thinks it's creepy.

But he reminds me too much of you. All bony. Only quieter.

Too quiet.

No chance of being kidnapped by the take-away driver here. Not anymore.

Not that a good kidnapping wouldn't be fun. You know, for old time's sake.

But not tonight, okay? I think… I think once my hands fully heal, see? They're almost there. The right one, at any rate.

The left… well, the pinky and ring fingers are gone. Thumb's pretty useless, too.

Mary doesn’t mind, though. Says I'm still… yeah, well, I'm going to ask her to marry me. Time to settle down, you know?

You're not here, so no interruptions. No explosions. No kidnappings.

Got a ring picked out, too.

Mrs Hudson helped. She's thrilled, of course.

Anyway. Don't know why I'm telling you this, but I thought you ought to know. Trevor's in the vegetable bin, so he can't hear.

And that just leaves you.

So, don't text me or anything. One night, Sherlock. Okay?

Ha. Like you _can_ text me.

Can you text, I wonder? From where you are?

Purgatory? Heaven? Hell? Blackpool?

Where? They buried you before I woke up, you know. Cremated, Mycroft said. Scattered the ashes in Switzerland.

Didn't think you liked mountains.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Tuesday 15 February 2011  
23.44_

So I thought I'd get an early night. Big day tomorrow. Going to ask Mary the question.

No, I didn't ask her back in January. Didn't want to quite yet. Not… not ready, I guess.

I'm taking her on a walk tomorrow, through the park where I first met Mike.

Hands are nearly healed, see? And so I went to bed early. Be ready for the big day.

And I had another fucking nightmare.

The pool again. Why I have to be stark naked under that bloody parka, I don't know.

And you walk in and tear that fucking thing off of me, and you're holding me up.

And I'm hard, and I kiss you.

And that's when he comes in. Starts laughing like the lunatic that he is. Was? I'd like to think was.

And you're naked and I'm naked, and there are laser lights dancing over us.

Fucking red fireflies.

And then the flames.

I wake up choking every time. And my hands hurt.

And in the dark I see you there.

What would you say right now, Sherlock?

What would you say?

Christ. I'm going to get some tea.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 5 March 2011  
12.26_

Today, Sherlock. Today I'm going to ask her.

It rained two weeks ago, and this is the first weekend she has free.

It's going to be today. Today. Today I start living for today, and for me, and tomorrow.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 21 March 2011  
03.22_

She said yes. I stood outside her flat with the box. In the rain, mind you. Waiting for her. Didn't ring the bell, just waited.

I think your brother drove by about five times.

He's still a prick, by the way. Takes tea with Mrs Hudson almost every Tuesday, too. Why didn't you bother to do that?

Anyway. I waited for her. And she came out and I asked her the question.

And she said yes.

So, erm… well, I guess – I guess I'll be leaving this place. Her flat's more comfortable. Doesn't leak and all. Doesn't have an upstairs loo that makes haunted noises at three a.m. Which is why I'm up now.

Thought you ought to know.

Won't be moving out for a while, though. There's still too much of your stuff to sort through. Christ, how did you manage?

The necklace of mummified toes was a nice touch, though. Ought to use that on Halloween.

But, yeah… I'll probably be shutting this down, too.

Mary… Mary's good. She's good _for_ me, too.

I think you… No, you would have hated her.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 27 April 2011  
17.30_

It's been a year now. Lot's changed, hasn't it? Still haven't moved out of here yet, though.

Mary and I have both been busy. She's sitting exams soon, of course.

I'm still lecturing.

God, what a year.

Still dream about you, though. Still wish you could hear this.

What a sad little man, you'd say. Well, this sad little man misses you, you insane bastard.

 _End Recording_

* * *

  


* * *

The air in the room is blue with smoke, fag ends scattered across the floor.

"This is what happens when you don't give me patches."

"You kill yourself by smoke inhalation?" Mycroft's lip twitches.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock throws his head back and squints at the cloudy light above him. "Why did you bother to bring _me_ here? Oh, wait, you have something to tell me. Big News, right?"

Mycroft sets the laptop and CD-Rom on the table.

"The edited highlights," he says.

Sherlock shoves the laptop away with one hand, taking a drag on the cigarette with the other.

"Dull. A distraction."

"You should see what you wrought."

"I didn't … God, you're _dramatic_." Sherlock rises and pockets the remainder of the cigarette packet.

"Sherlock…"

"I have work to do, Mycroft." He puts a fresh cigarette in his mouth and lights it from the tail end of the old one. He shoves past his brother out of the room. The laptop remains on the table.

He doesn't want to know. Doesn't need it.

* * *

  


* * *

 _Sunday 1 May 2011  
07.19_

Well, this is the first sunny day we've had in a while. Finally got round to cleaning the windows this weekend. Did you realize how bright it was in here?

Greg came and helped. Mary, too, when she had time.

Yes, we're still engaged.

Yes, I am going to be moving out, so you can just not say… whatever it is you were going to say.

But the place looks good. Even Trevor thinks so. You're right, talking to him does help me think.

He thinks I should have kissed you, though.

Told him he's mad. Or maybe I am. Talking to a skull.

What a conversation to have on a beautiful Sunday morning. Greg's coming to watch the football. He goes to the pub with me to watch rugby. It's only fair.

And no, we don't talk about you.

Any more.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 30 May 2011  
23.55_

Your brother is a complete and absolute prick.

Thought you should know.

I hate you both.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 13 June 2011  
19.00_

So, your brother came around again. Offered to buy the flat from me. Set me and Mary up in a practice in the country.

The Sussex Downs.

Is this how he gets off? Gets his kicks?

You got off on crime scenes, and he gets off on making people's lives up for them?

Mary says I should think about it. It would be a great place to raise kids, she said.

Christ. Kids. Hadn't even thought about that.

I hate you both.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Thursday 18 August 2011  
02.30_

So I should have kissed you that night. When we thought it was safe. When we were laughing.

God, I never felt so free in that moment as when you looked at me and said that what I'd done, what I offered to do, was "good."

What would you have done? If you'd been in my arms when you shot the bomb?

Because you know what, it's not bloody fair that I'm here and you’re not and I never fucking _told_ you.

Because every fucking night when it's too hot to think, too hot to sleep, too hot to fuck, I keep thinking about you.

How the _fuck_ was I supposed to know you were going to do that, Sherlock?

And how stupid was I to let you go?

Christ.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 30 September 2011  
00.07_

So, Mary's told me I have this weekend to get my head figured out.

Apparently I was dreaming about you – about us.

And I lashed out and hit her. Damn near broke her nose.

She won't sleep with me anymore. Not until I get serious counseling.

The nightmares are getting worse.

The flat's too quiet without you.

I haven't seen your brother in weeks, either. Thought that would be a relief, but it's not.

Harry's been by. She's quit drinking again.

Looks like everyone's got their lives in order except for old John Watson.

Still sitting alone in the dark. Talking to a computer.

Alone. Again. Of course.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Thursday 20 October 2011  
23.49_

Mary's left and I think it's for good this time.

I've been seeing a new psychologist.

Hasn't helped the dreams, though.

Your brother's back. Got a new assistant, too – a man. Think he's in love with your brother, though. That won't last.

Yeah, I guess you did teach me something.

Oh, and speaking of being in love with people, I was _never_ in love with you. Or Clara for that matter. Just because she'd slept with me first, didn’t mean I have a grudge.

So that's another thing you were wrong about.

You can't be right about everything, you know.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 28 October 2011  
08.34_

So, I'm going to try to update this every week.

Today I woke up, had my tea. Did my physio exercises.

Yesterday, I woke up, had my tea. Did my physio exercises.

Thought about you as I read the paper. Nothing that would interest you in there.

Yeah…

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 4 November 2011  
08.45_

Here I am again. Updating. Psychologist says I should.

Took a big step this week. Yesterday, in fact. Went to "his" lab.

Molly was in there and we had a laugh about how you, about how _he_ would clutter the place up.

Got sober fairly quick when we remembered that Moriarty had been there too, that time.

Did you… I wonder if _he_ knew something was up when he met "Jim from IT".

He. He. He. That's the part I keep forgetting.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 18 November 2011  
08.20_

I'd been good up to this point.

Last weekend I was in Stratford-Upon-Avon with Mary.

Trying to patch things up a bit. She likes theatre, apparently.

No Chinese acrobats this time.

Mycroft came round this week. Offered me the cottage in the Sussex Downs again. And the practice.

God, what a creep.

Mary thinks we can give things another chance.

Maybe it's about time I tried.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 2 December 2011  
04.38_

Up early again. Another nightmare. First one in a while, though.

I think whatever they've given me is working.

Mary's not here, thank God. She won't have to know about this one. That was a stipulation of her seeing me again. The nightmares had to stop.

Although I don't think this counts as a nightmare.

It was you… Him. Sherlock. Sherlock and me.

Naked again. Why are we always naked? Anyway.

Him, you. Sherlock. Me.

Only we're _in_ the pool, and we're … kissing… kissing each other. God. It's perfect.

You – he – tastes of chlorine and sweat and I'm hard. You're pressing against me. We're up against the steps.

And you turn. I bite down on your neck, and you stiffen, and Christ …

And I can hear you over and over and over again.

"John, John, John, John."

And I wake up. Stiff as a fucking board.

I _am_ going mad.

 _End Recording_

* * *

25 December 2011

Another Christmas card for you.

Mycroft, I hope you see what I'm doing here. You can kiss my arse, too, while you're at it.

Happy Christmas you bastard,

John Watson

* * *

 _Friday 6 January 2012  
06.30_

So, your friend. His friend. Sherlock's friend. The banker.

Not really a friend, though, You... he didn't have friends. Okay, his acquaintance, Sebastian – Seb, I guess – turned up dead yesterday.

Greg called me. Sent a car and everything.

Not that I could tell him much. Anderson has a beard now, by the way.

Gunshot wound to the head. Apparent suicide in his flat. Cleaning lady found him. He'd been there for days.

No note, of course. Not even a black origami lotus. You'd... Sherlock would have loved this.

Funny, didn't realize Seb was left-handed, though.

Anyway, I took a look round, chatted with Donovan. I think she misses you.

Funny, that.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 9 January 2012  
21.34_

So, yeah… Mary's asleep in the other room and I can't sleep.

Can't stop thinking about Seb's suicide. Except it wasn't. Ballistics report (Greg sent it to me) says that the bullet wasn't from the gun they found.

So it's murder.

And I wish you were here.

You'd have had this solved by now. Probably the milkman or something. Or the cleaning lady.

"John? What are you doing up?"

Oh, that's Mary. I have to…

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 13 January 2012  
05.45_

Guess I don't need that much sleep any more. Side effect of growing older?

God, my head hurts this morning.

Hands hurt, too. First time in a while.

It is murder. Seb's right-handed.

See what you've done? We're all looking now.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 18 January 2012  
23.19_

Spent the day at New Scotland Yard talking to Greg and Dimmock about the case of the Blind Banker. It's all over the news now, but nobody's made the connection yet. Not to Van Coon.

Is there a connection? Somebody murdered Seb. And they never tracked down Shan. Or any of the others.

What's going on, Sherlock? Is he back?

I haven't seen your brother in a few weeks, either.

Not like you can tell me. Because Seb's dead and you're dead. And…

Christ, this is stupid. I'm going to bed.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 27 January 2012  
07.45_

Christ, I've been so stupid. He is back. And your brother's... your brother's chasing him.

Your family… You don't do things by halves, do you?

They found a skeleton in an abandoned building in north London – preliminary reports suggest it _was_ Shan. There was a computer there, too. Greg told me they're still trying to recall the data from it.

I'm willing to bet your brother's following me again, too.

Vengeance, Holmes style? Fitting.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 27 January 2012  
23.15_

Was supposed to have dinner with Mary tonight. We were going to talk about the future, she never showed.

Just a text saying she'd had a call from her mum and couldn't make it.

So, here I am. Talking to a computer again.

Keep thinking about Shan, though. And Seb. Did they know what they were getting into, I wonder?

I didn't. Had no idea. But when your brother offered me the money, well… What else was there that I could do?

I should call Mary.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 28 January 2012  
02.26_

Mary's been kidnapped.

What the hell are you playing at, Mycroft?

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Sunday 5 February 2012  
03.30_

So, I'm home now from the hospital.

The doctors say Mary's going to be fine. We found her quickly – Greg and his team did.

She was hurt. Fairly badly, too. I guess we didn't find her fast enough.

She woke up today. Yesterday. Her mum called me. I was… I was at Bart’s, looking at the pipe they'd beaten her with.

The message was clear enough.

Mycroft's stepped up the surveillance on the flat. Even I can tell.

Feel like I have a target on my back.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 22 February 2012  
00.55_

Mary came home today. From the hospital. Her mum called me.

Did you know they broke every knuckle on her left hand?

She'll heal. Won't ever be a surgeon, though. She's thinking about pediatrics.

And she's not talking to me anymore. Don't blame her, either.

I thought that… Well, I thought we had a chance, now that…

Yeah. So much for that.

I've been up for… I don't know. Days? I should try to get some sleep.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 3 March 2012  
02.48_

Mary's mum returned the ring today. Or what was left of it. They had to cut it off of Mary's finger when they found her...

Christ. And it's your fault. You've been dead for two fucking years, and it's all your fucking fault.

Why, Sherlock? Why exactly did you …

Why did I?

God, I'm a fool. A complete fool.

I should be thinking about her. About what they did to her. About how I'm going to kill every single one of them. Even with these hands, hands that can barely hold a pen.

My hands still shake, too. Nerve damage, they say.

Yeah, well.

So, Mary is moving on. Good for her. It's… it's all fine.

Because I still think about you.

I really, really hate you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 2 April 2012  
06.12_

So, I spent the night thinking. I spent the month thinking.

They haven't found who snatched Mary, by the way. The people who did it… had no idea who hired them. Of course.

Yeah, he's definitely back.

But why? Sherlock? He's not finished, is he?

Maybe I have something in common with Jim Moriarty, after all.

 _End Recording_

* * *

  


* * *

"Things are coming to a head, Sherlock." Mycroft's lip curls at the stench of cigarette smoke.

The man at the table folds his arms and glares at the laptop and the glossy photographs on top of it.

John is looking older.

Perhaps it's the scars. Burn scars, mostly. Face and, from what he can see, most of his chest. The medical reports lie beside the laptop.

Sherlock can't see his hands, not in this shot, but he knows.

"You're quite amazing, you know," Mycroft says. "Killing Sebastian?"

"I didn't kill him," Sherlock lies, taking a drag on the cigarette.

"Of course not." He knows Mycroft doesn't believe him for a moment.

"Sebastian was as useless to me as he was to Moriarty."

"And kidnapping John's fiancée?"

"Not me."

"No?"

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"I have _work_ to do, Mycroft."

He rises and strides from the room. If Mycroft notices the limp, he says nothing.

The photographs remain on the table. The laptop remains unopened.

* * *

  


* * *

 _Wednesday 30 May 2012  
21.15_

I dreamed about you again last night. There's a fucking target on my heart, and it's you.

God, Sherlock. He was right. He was talking to you that night, but Christ, he was talking to me.

Should have kissed you, should have told you.

And we're back to that.

Would be really nice if I could get beyond that point, Sherlock.

I really hate you for that.

But not more than I hate myself for hating you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Tuesday 5 June 2012  
04.55_

Moving today.

Yeah, Mycroft finally wore me down. Taking retirement in the Sussex Downs. That cottage.

Think I might take up gardening or something.

Mycroft keeps suggesting bees.

Daft bugger. Still creepy, too.

His assistant's changed again. Another woman this time. Blonde. Would've been a time I'd have tried to…

Yeah, well, that doesn't happen anymore, does it?

Not since you… Have I been in love with you this whole time?

Perhaps that's what Sarah meant.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Monday 24 June 2012  
08.39_

It's a beautiful morning here.

Doesn’t help that I haven't slept since… oh, I don’t know when. Three days, maybe?

But here I am, with tea.

Listening to the fucking birds.

It's _dull_.

And I can't stop thinking about you.

Because I think it's true. I loved you. And I still do.

You bastard.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Tuesday 3 July 2012  
16.55_

Your brother's a right bastard. So are you.

He fucking told Harry and Clara where I was, and now they've come to see me.

They just left. Clara's pregnant. Looks like I'm going to be an uncle.

Uncle John.

Did you ever think you'd be a father?

Of course not. You probably think children are a waste of time.

I always thought I'd be a good dad. My dad was a good dad. How he managed to produce me and Harry…

Greg once said to me that you were a great man, and if he was lucky, one day you'd be a good one.

Were you, Sherlock?

Were you a great man?

You said you weren't a hero. Maybe I wanted you to be one.

Maybe I wanted something to believe in. That you … that you _helped_ people.

That you cared.

Look what caring got you. Got me.

Got us.

No, it's not a great cop, this caring lark, is it?

People died. You died.

But Moriarty was right about one thing: that's what people _do_.

But fuck all if it had to be you instead of me.

Because I can't delete you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Tuesday 17 July 2012  
03.45_

Another dream. Not a nightmare.

I wake up and you're there. Your arms are around me, and you're smiling at me.

You whisper my name and bury your head in my shoulder.

And it's all … fine.

That's when I wake up.

God, I hate you so much. Sherlock.

It's July, and it's too hot to sleep, and I hate you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 25 July 2012  
17.00_

I'm sitting here watching the sun set through the garden windows.

There's a willow tree down by the brook, trailing its branches in the water.

It would have been the perfect place for your hives.

Why bees, anyway? I found all of your books on apiology in your bedroom.

Bees?

Really?

I should eat something. I've been trying to learn to cook. Mrs Hudson sent me off with a book of her best recipes, and I've been working my way through them. Or as best I can. Two years on, I can more or less function.

Except when my hands shake.

But that only happens after I've been dreaming about you.

They've been shaking all day.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 3 August 2012  
22.19_

So, Greg drove out here. Him and Sarah. I invited them for dinner.

We talked about life. How they are. How I am.

Mrs Hudson's gone back to Florida. Despite her husband, I guess she likes it there.

Greg and Sarah are going to be… married, I guess. When all this settles.

Yeah. All this. No serial suicides or bombings or anything.

But there's this feeling. Like there's a storm coming.

Even here. Hundreds of miles away from London, I can feel it.

Greg's thinner. _Gaunt_. Sarah looks after him, but …

There's somebody watching them, he says. Might be your brother.

Said there was someone going through their bins last night. Would your brother stoop to that?

I'm alone out here. I can only feel it from a distance.

The storm's coming, Sherlock. Can you feel it?

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _5 August 2012  
00.45_

Greg's dead.

There _was_ a bomb. In their fucking rubbish bins.

I'm in London; your brother brought me back.

Christ. I thought…

Well it doesn't matter what I thought, because I'm here now, aren't I?

And the target's on my back again.

What are you doing? Is it you?

Or is it something else?

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _6 August 2012  
21.34_

They buried Greg today.

I stood with Sarah as they carried him out of the church.

He was a good man.

We were lucky to have known him.

Sarah took my hand as he went into the ground. And we stood there together.

It's started to rain again. I can look out the window of my hotel room and see it lashing down onto the streets. It's falling on the busses and taxicabs, and it's falling on Greg's grave.

He was a good man. He didn't deserve…

 _Knocking at the door_

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _7 August 2012  
02.45_

Hello 2.45, I remember you.

Sarah's asleep. She finally managed to cry herself to sleep.

We… I don't know what's wrong with us. She brought a bottle of whisky.

We finished it and then we fucked, and halfway through we were both crying, and…

Christ. Greg didn't deserve this.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Thursday 27 September 2012  
01.14_

Yeah, so this whole thing is a big bloody mistake, isn't it?

I'll wake up in the morning, and Greg will still be alive, and Sarah and I won't have fucked each other, and I'll be back at Baker Street, and you'll be doing God-knows-what in the kitchen.

But that's not it, is it?

Fuck.

And do you know, if you were here, actually here right now, I think I would have to hit you.

If I hadn't woken up thinking that I … that I love you.

Christ.

 _End Recording_

* * *

  


* * *

"Sherlock…"

"I'm not _finished_ , Mycroft."

"This isn't a game, Sherlock, you can't just…"

"I haven't _finished_."

* * *

  


* * *

 _Monday 1 October 2012  
22.28_

It's raining again, and I'm thinking of you.

Sarah… Sarah was a mistake. Obviously.

But you… Christ, why…

You were never a mistake, Sherlock.

If I never get to say this, you were the best damn thing I ever did.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Saturday 26 October 2012  
18.37_

It's time, I guess. Your brother came by this morning.

Something's about to happen, and…

Sherlock, are you… are you still out there?

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Wednesday 14 November 2012  
00.55_

It's late. Or early. Or something.

I should catch up on what's happened.

Mycroft picked me up and we went… I don't know. Somewhere. Another fucking car park.

And I waited and waited.

And then he came out of the shadows. Him. Moriarty.

Just as thin, just as petite, just as well dressed.

Except he was wearing a fucking parka loaded with explosives.

Just the two of us. Facing each other.

And then the fucking fireflies started. Red dots dancing all over us.

The little fucker started laughing and laughing and laughing.

And you… I swear I saw you in the shadows.

He backed away, cackling.

"Not today, lover!" he cried. "Daddy won't take the bait today!"

Is that what I am to you Sherlock? To you and your brother? Bait? To catch a madman.

I take it back. I take everything back.

I fucking _hate_ you.

 _End Recording_

* * *

 _Friday 30 November 2012  
02.30_

I haven't slept in a month, it feels like. Maybe two.

He hasn't made another attempt, but then, neither has your brother.

But you know what? I'm finished. I'm fucking finished with all of you.

I'm keeping the house; I'll buy it from your brother. I've talked the local doctor into taking me on for a few shifts. And I'm learning – oh Christ, I'm learning animal husbandry, too.

If that's what it's going to take.

I'm also shutting this down.

Because I've been in mourning for you long enough, Sherlock.

I'll never forget you, but I can't… I can't do this.

You're _dead_. And you've been dead for a while. It's time… It's time I accepted that.

 _End Recording_

* * *

  


* * *

"Merry Christmas, little brother." Mycroft sets the DVDs and the laptop on the table next to the crumpled packet of cigarettes.

"No." Sherlock shakes his head vehemently.

"No?"

"I'm not _ready_."

"What will it take?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock looks up at him.

"A place," Sherlock says.

"Just watch them and then tell me where you want it to happen," Mycroft says with a weary sigh.

"I don't have to watch them."

"Watch them." Mycroft's tone brooks, for once, no argument.

Sherlock lights another cigarette and flips open the laptop. From the speakers he hears,

 _Erm, well… My name is John Watson and this… this is ridiculous._

He does not move from the seat but to light cigarette after cigarette.

The blue light of the laptop flickers on his pale face.

* * *

He's been watching him for a week now. He's disguised as a tramp – sleeping rough, watching him from the woods.

He watches as he goes on rounds with the vet, while he does his shifts in the village surgery.

He is waiting.

It's spring again, and he watches as John delivers his first foal.

The look on John's face as he massages life into the tiny beast with his crumpled, broken hands is beautiful. But he's not _finished_ yet.

He's not done.

* * *

He's standing at the edge of the cliff looking across the foaming waters. There is no sound but the water.

And Moriarty is standing opposite.

Every instinct is telling Sherlock to run, run like he never has before.

But he won't. Because in his mind, in the corners that he cannot reach to delete, he sees them: the cab driver, the suicides, Shan, Soo Lin, the hostages, John, Lestrade.

 _I will burn the heart out of you._

Mycroft steps out of the woods and, with a swift movement, slides the knife between Moriarty's ribs.

The look of surprise on his face is almost comical as he stands for an instant and crumples forward, falling into the torrent.

He's standing at the edge of the cliff, looking across the foaming waters.

Mycroft is standing opposite.

Sherlock nods at his brother. It is of little importance whose hand held the knife.

He is finished.

* * *

He's shaved for the first time in … weeks? Months? Irrelevant.

All he knows is that he's coming _home_. He'll make Mycroft deliver the hives. It will be another favor he owes him, but what is one more favor to his brother?

He pauses at the front gate of the small cottage. John is in the front garden, on his knees, pulling at weeds as a huge tortoiseshell cat winds around him.

Close at hand, John looks older, worn.

Sherlock remembers the report: burns over forty percent of his body; injuries to hands and arms and hips, broken ribs, broken back, nerve damage to the hands; possible recurrence of PTSD; two reconstructive surgeries to rebuild the left wrist; loss of fingers.

But Sherlock also knows what his medical report says. He has burns over sixty percent of his body; injuries to his back; fractures of the skull; severe damage to the spinal cord (he will never walk without a limp); partial hearing loss.

Neither of them should have survived the explosion. Both of them did because of one another.

John is still on his knees.

One word. It clings in his throat.

"John."

He looks up.

The world stops. Sherlock feels as if his heart may burst.

* * *

His first instinct is to sweep John to his feet and kiss him, bury himself in the other man, pull him close, close, closer than he's ever pulled anyone.

But the look on John's face makes him freeze.

"You…" John stares at him.

There's something wrong with Sherlock's eyesight; it keeps blurring.

"I'm alive." It's a statement of fact. His voice is thick, too.

John's mouth twitches.

"Yeah, I figured when I saw you in the shadows, you… you mad bastard."

Sherlock braces himself. Remembers that John has to _feel_ things.

There's dampness on his cheeks.

"You insane… you complete…"

John's struggling for words and Sherlock steps forward.

"I love you," Sherlock says.

John starts. Then he begins to laugh.

There's still dampness on Sherlock's cheeks.

"You _idiot_ ," John says, climbing heavily to his feet as if the movement pains him. "You're skipping…. You're skipping the part where I shout at you."

"He's dead," Sherlock says. "Mycroft and I…"

"Yeah, I know. Your brother sent me surveillance. A forest? Is there nowhere he doesn't have cameras?"

Sherlock smiles.

"And for the record," John says, "I hate you both."

"It's probably better that way," Sherlock acknowledges.

But then John is in his arms and kissing him and nothing else matters, because there's dampness on John's cheeks too.

* * *

It is unnaturally silent in the kitchen as John makes them tea.

"You saw the entries." It's not a question.

Sherlock nods.

"Bloody Mycroft." John sits opposite him. The light in the kitchen is red as the setting sun streams in through the windows that look out over the stream and the willow tree.

Sherlock smiles, choosing to focus on John's hands: warped now, scarred, incomplete. He wants to bring his lips to John's hands, to suck the index finger into his mouth, feel the calluses against his tongue.

Not yet. John shifts in his chair.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock observes.

John's laugh is a short bark.

"You could say that. Good deduction."

"Heroes don't exist…"

"And if they did, you wouldn't be one," John finishes for him. He pushes back from the table. "If we're going to have this conversation, I need something stronger than tea."

He walks to the cupboard and pulls out a bottle of whisky and a glass. He pours a generous amount and tosses it back, grimacing as it goes down. And then another. He moves to pour a third.

Sherlock is behind him in a moment, his hand on John's wrist.

John smells of earth and sweat and whisky. He is standing stiffly in front of Sherlock, hand wrapped around the empty glass. Sherlock is close enough to feel the tension in his back and shoulders.

He's already kissed him once. If he kisses him again…

John turns and Sherlock sees the world in his eyes.

He's disappointed John.

But then John is kissing him again, or maybe he's kissing John, and John tastes of whisky and tears.

Or maybe the tears are his.

Sherlock finds John's hand and wraps it around his. Three and a half fingers, limited movement, rough with the scarring. He pulls it to his mouth and presses his lips to it. Tastes the fingers, traces the whorls and ridges of John's unique print, the scars, the patches of dry skin, the cracks.

The sun has set.

In the half-light of the room, John draws a breath.

"In the morning," he says.

"Yes. In the morning, we will have to discuss this." Sherlock knows. Knows John needs to pick their relationship apart, will need to tell him how angry he is. Will need to come to terms with the one thing that Sherlock _doesn't_ need to understand.

Because Sherlock already _knows_.

"Will you be here?" John asks.

Releasing his hand, Sherlock dares to rest his forehead on John's.

"Do you want me to be?" he asks softly.

In the darkness, John's answer is not in words.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Annietalbot, Bluestocking79, Dickgloucestser, Machshefa, and Pyjamapants for their tireless efforts! Not mine, no money.


End file.
